


Turn and Turn Again

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis is sent on a mission to find Porthos, though the true purpose behind Treville's orders is something far greater than recruiting a new ally. Old memories begin to make Aramis suspect that he's lived more than one life and is starting to figure out that Porthos factors into it in a very important way.</p><p>(What they don't know is that they're the very last to the party)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When the sun rose on Wednesday morning, Aramis had no idea the dangerous tasks that awaited him. He had been working in Paris for the last few months for Treville, tracking down an asset while renting an apartment near the Latin Quarter, where he could disappear amidst the tourists while he did his work. It was supposed to be a good day. He had secured the asset, the job was done, and Treville had called him into the offices for his next assignment. 

If only his head wasn’t pounding with the regret of a night spent drinking with Athos in celebration. Aramis fell out of the bed when he rolled too far, his cell phone ringing far too loudly.

“Why?” Aramis pleaded. “Why do you insist on drinking enough to replace the pints of blood in my body?”

Athos was lying on the other side of the bed, groaning weakly. “I’m fine for it,” he protested. “I don’t see why you’re complaining.”

Aramis tripped over his feet, but managed to grab his cell phone and open the blinds in one fell swoop, sending bright light right into Athos’ eyes. He grinned smugly at Athos’ cry of pain. “Aramis,” he answered his phone. “Go ahead,” he urged, ignoring Athos’ drunken slurs and profanity. 

“You’re late.”

“Treville,” Aramis sighed, rubbing his forehead as he tried to find a clock. He stumbled over Athos’ prone body, catching his foot on Athos’ torso and realizing he was late for their meeting. “I haven’t forgotten,” he swore. “I’ll be there.”

“Bring Athos,” Treville said, before hanging up. 

Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t slept well. He’d dreamed those strange dreams again, the ones of a Paris long past and the most remarkably audacious and ornamental hat and clothes. Athos was there, along with a young boy, and a face from Aramis’ past that he would never (could never) forget. 

“Why do I let you convince me to drink so much?” Aramis demanded, closing his eyes and taking a moment to bask in the dull silence of early morning. 

Athos stirred, enough to sit up sluggishly. “I’m your only friend.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Aramis plucked his hat from the stand when he had gone through the motions that brought him back to feeling roughly more like a human being, waiting for Athos to complete the process in what seemed like double the time. “What do you think is the matter this time?” Athos murmured, sliding his sunglasses over his eyes.

“He sounded angry.”

“He always sounds angry.” Athos peered up into the daylight, patting himself down as he searched for a cigarette to smoke while they walked. “Did you like Bess?”

“Who?”

“Bess,” Athos reiterated. “The girl fawning over you last night at the bar? You haven’t gone on a date in months, Aramis, and for you, that’s practically death. What happened? Ever since you came back from Italy on that job, you haven’t been yourself.”

Aramis cleared his throat, trying not to recall Monterosso al Mare and what transpired on those shores that had sent him back to Paris rattled and trying to forget the mistakes he made all those years ago. “I don’t like it when women throw themselves at me,” he said, rather than give Athos even a grain of the truth. “I prefer the challenge.” 

Athos raised his brow as if to agree (or disagree, given that Athos’ wordless communications were hazy at best when he was hungover). 

“So is this a bad time to tell you I’ve been seeing someone casually?” Athos asked. 

Aramis paused, stuck outside Notre Dame, which was a good place as any to make the sign of the cross and stare up to the heavens as though God himself would answer him if he asked a question standing here. “Can it be?” he addressed the heavens and the tourists in the bell towers. “Has Athos finally moved on from Milady of the Malcontents?” 

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that.”

“And I wish she hadn’t nearly taken you down with her when she was arrested for grand larceny,” Aramis countered. “We can’t all get what we want. Who is she, then? Is it that little songbird you met in Montmartre? The English girl who got lost and managed to coerce you into playing tourist all day?”

“Or,” Athos replied slowly, as if taking back control of the conversation, “the rookie Treville hired and asked me to check in on regularly.”

“Ah, yes, her,” Aramis replied, utterly befuddled and lost. He really didn’t pay much attention to the goings-on of his fellow workers in private security and investigation and it was becoming very clear that he ought to. “Remind me of her name?”

“D’Artagnan,” Athos supplied with the smirk of a man who set that up.

“The Gascon boy?”

Athos stared at Aramis. “What? No, he’s from Reims,” Athos said, shaking his head. “Gascony? Where on earth did you get that from?” he wondered. “Come, you must still be drunker than I thought.”

Aramis might have been clouded in his thoughts, but not so clouded that he didn’t want to seize upon the fact that Athos was dating a man – young man, to be certain. “You told me you had no interest in men!” he accused.

“No, Aramis,” Athos replied. “I said I had no interest in _you_.”

“Same thing,” Aramis said. “So if you’re seeing someone, why did you drag me out to drink last night as though Paris was going to run out of alcohol? And don’t say it was to fix me up with someone. If I wanted, I could do that anywhere.”

Athos cleared his throat. “You’ll understand later.”

“Cryptic,” Aramis accused. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you now. I think you will soon, if Treville is sending you after whom I think he is.”

“It’s as though you’ve taken lessons in being so cryptic,” Aramis said, given that he was only digging a hole deeper into the realm of the unknown. Aramis waited for Athos to put out his cigarette, holding open the door to the Paris offices, heading straight up to Treville’s office. When they reached that uppermost floor, Athos paused in the reception area. 

“Go on,” Athos said. “I’ll speak to him after.”

Aramis removed the hat from his head and made his way into the immaculate offices that Treville kept. They were always sparse and it made Aramis want to hire decorators to see if they were able to breathe any kind of life into the place or whether it was a lost cause. Fighting back his headache, Aramis stood at attention (a leftover from his days in the army, even if being a sniper had often given him time off on his own). 

“You look awful,” Treville greeted.

“And a very good morning to you, sir,” Aramis replied, doing his best so smile sunnily, but his face still hurt from the hangover, so he did have to take it back a tad. “You mentioned you had a job for me.”

“Not sleeping well?” Treville continued, ignoring Aramis as if he hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Odd dreams, maybe?”

Aramis eyed Treville suspiciously. There had been some strange dreams the last few nights, but they weren’t anything that a few period piece episodes of television couldn’t explain, especially not when combined with unresolved business from his past. “Sir,” Aramis said curtly. “Why am I here?”

Treville rounded his desk, digging out a file folder and dropping it to the glass table. Some of its contents spilled out and a black and white picture peeked out from the edges of the manila folder, giving Aramis a brief glance at an image that made his heart stop. 

He would recognize that face anywhere, even if it hadn’t haunted his dreams for the last two weeks. Aramis stared at the folder, aware of where this meeting was going and feeling suddenly, absolutely, with the need to find a way to escape it. 

“I thought you said when you hired me that the past would stay where it belonged,” Aramis said evenly.

“I thought the same, but I quickly came to realize the error of my ways,” Treville replied. “The past is more important to you and me than you know, Aramis. It’s why you need to go after him.”

Porthos du Vallon. 

Aramis would know his face anywhere. Years ago, Porthos had been the thief that had so handily robbed Aramis of his papers, assigning him to take out a target while in London. The job had fallen through, Aramis had been heavily reprimanded and he’d been without a job until Treville had hired him for his private firm. 

If only that had been the last he had seen of Porthos, but they seemed to haunt each other’s steps. They never spent more than twenty-four hours together and every time Aramis was in his presence, his head grew so cloudy and fogged up that he had no idea what it was the other man did to him. Porthos had given up the life of thievery and worked as private security for whomever would hire him.

And the last time they had crossed paths was Monterosso al Mare when Aramis had been chasing down a piece of information and had run physically into Porthos’ looming chest.

That had ended poorly, too, with Porthos leaving with someone named Charon and a pained look on his face, like whatever circumstances he was in, they weren’t pleasant.

“I want to hire him,” Treville said, tapping the picture. “He’s under the employ of someone I believe you’ve met. Petty thief turned businessman and holds Porthos under no contract.”

“So why doesn’t he leave on his own?”

“Blackmail, I’ve heard. Charon, the boss, is trading on something important to Porthos, but the time for that is done.”

Aramis could barely think around the man. It was like he retreated into some part of his mind that was fragmented and separated from the rest of him. Plus, there was that whole pesky business where Aramis wanted to sleep with Porthos so very much that his cock twitched in interest just thinking about his broad chest and his strong arms. Aramis cleared his throat. “You want me to fetch him, don’t you?”

Treville nodded, a wry smile on his face.

Aramis began to collect his things. “When should Athos and I leave?”

“No, no, not this time,” Treville said. “This is for you and you alone.”

Aramis usually had some form of backup whenever he went out to do some work for Treville. In fact, it was part and parcel of why he and Athos had grown so close. Usually Athos was the one running the electronics in the background, but it seemed odd to be sending Aramis into the field alone. 

“What’s going on, Treville?” Aramis asked, his suspicions beginning to grow increasingly stronger.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is something you’ll find out for yourself once you find Porthos,” Treville said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re in luck, too. The last intel said he was seen in town, lurking around La Defense. Bring him back here,” he said, pressing the folder into Aramis’ hands. “I’d remind you that we want him alive, but you’d never let anyone touch a hair on his head.”

Aramis paled, wondering how much Treville knew of their history, but no more information was given. He tucked the folder under his arm and gave a brisk salute before leaving the office with the feeling that he had just escaped with barely his head intact.

Outside, Athos was waiting for him.

“Well?” he prompted. 

“Did you know about this? Who he’s sending me after?”

“It’s about time,” Athos murmured. “I know you haven’t been sanctioned for back-up on this one, but if you need me, give a shout,” he said. “Not that I think you’ll need the help. This is a long time coming, Aramis.”

Stuck with a new job, knowing that Porthos was apparently within the city, Aramis wondered what on earth was waiting for him out there. Everything didn’t make sense and he was tired of feeling like his life slotted just outside of place. It was time for him to start finding some answers and the first place he planned to start was not letting Porthos out of his sight – not this time.


	2. Porthos

Porthos wasn’t sure why he kept coming back to Paris.

It wasn’t like he’d had many good experiences in the capitol city. Sure, he’d roamed through here during his youth, but the most memorable places he’d been should’ve outranked Paris easily. And yet, Porthos always felt drawn back here, enough that he typically would spend all the time not in Charon’s employ roaming these streets.

Of course, this time he had another reason for being here.

For the last few months, things had been getting terrible with Charon. The power was going to his head and he was seeking money and profit more than safe jobs. It’d led to him putting Porthos life in danger far more than he’d liked and he needed a way out. At the same time, he knew he couldn’t just leave without another avenue of work lined up.

It was a good thing he knew a name or two who could help with that.

Porthos grinned into his wine as he thought about the reason he was here and how said reason had grinned at him like a man who knew his charms would never run out. “You know, Paris is lonely without you,” Aramis had said, before Charon had shown up and taken Porthos with him. They had been at a beach-side restaurant, the ocean softly crashing onto the shore behind them. Aramis had insisted on taking Porthos out for dinner after running him down and now they sat with candles, wine, and Italian delicacies between them. 

“I don’t move country on the first date,” Porthos replied with a smirk. 

“Ah, but you do put out,” Aramis was quick to retort, pouring more wine into Porthos’ glass with a cheeky grin. “Of course, that would require us to be in the same place for more than eight hours before one of us, usually you, has to leave.”

Porthos did love spending time with Aramis, but given their employment by opposing firms, things never did seem to last more than a day at best. And after, Porthos would have these wild dreams, like he’d been slipped something.

That, or the sexual frustration was starting to get to him, given that he hadn’t had sex in years, not since Flea ran on him when the cops were after them. She’d chosen the lam, Porthos has chosen reform.

Now, though, his working relationship with Charon was tenuous and Porthos wanted out. It meant he needed to see if Aramis would bring him to his boss and put in a good word.

It meant coming back to Paris.

He was trying to keep a low profile, given the number of enemies he had made over his years. The best option for him was posing as a tourist with a baseball cap riding low over his eyes, a pair of jeans, and a sleek grey button-down. He had a camera case in a pouch on his shoulder and anytime he thought he was being followed, he snapped a photo, just to review at the end of the day. Though he checked all the usual haunts he knew Aramis liked, he couldn’t find him in the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter or in the winding paths of Père Lachaise, and he wasn’t at the usual cafes.

Much longer, and he was going to have to do something drastic, like call the bloke Aramis always worked with – Athos, he thought. 

It turned out his luck was bound to change, though. He’d been going through museums to keep up the act of a tourist roaming Paris (and to potentially lose a tail, in the event he’d picked one up). He was in Nissim de Camondo when he felt a warm presence sit down beside him. 

“If I were rich, I’m not sure I’d want to model my house as the miniature version of someone else’s,” said Aramis, shifting slightly and bringing his fingers over Porthos’, giving them the barest hint of contact. “It’s so unoriginal.”

“I don’t doubt you would erect a monstrosity on the eyes,” Porthos replied, sliding his hat off and running a finger through his humidity-stricken curls. “Been looking for you.”

“What a coincidence,” Aramis said cheerfully. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Porthos glanced over at Aramis, who had been growing out a beard. Porthos hated the fact that it made him even more attractive, as if giving in to laziness has somehow given him the ability to be even more beautiful.

Arse.

“Finally come to collect on that date?”

“Sadly, this is a job offer,” Aramis said. “I’m supposed to bring you into Treville, who wants to speak to you.” Aramis peered over Porthos’ shoulder, listening to each creaky step someone took on the old floors. “Are we going to be interrupted here, too? How long of a leash did you leave your guard dog on? What’s his name? I know him as the pain in my arse that keeps me from you.”

“Do you flirt with all your job interviews this much?” Porthos asked, trying to stop the quick beating of his heart.

Aramis pressed his hand over his heart. “Only the ones I really like.”

Porthos meant to reply, but he was struck off guard with a blinding flash of pain in his head, a memory of Aramis saying something else. It echoed in his mind like the fuzzy sound of a broken movie. _Tell me he’s not that stupid_ , but that wasn’t a voice he know. Porthos shook his head to try and get it out, but he craned his gaze back to Aramis. “Charon doesn’t know I’m here.”

“So the rumours are true?”

“Yeah, I’m looking to get out of my contract. Know anyone who’s hiring?” he joked. 

Aramis didn’t seem to want to joke much longer. “Is there any danger of your life being forfeit as soon as you inform your former employer that you wish to leave his presence?”

Porthos paused, as if this was occurring to him for the first time rather than the twentieth (or even hundredth, if he were honest). “You’re right. Know any good fighters? Someone good with a pistol might be best, maybe a sharpshooter, served as a sniper…? And of course, I prefer them handsome.”

Aramis stroked his beard thoughtfully. “What about devilishly handsome? Will that be a dealbreaker? Porthos,” he said, once his charm and teasing had faded. “Will Charon come after you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then we ought to get you where no one will look for you.”

“Where’s that, then? Treville’s office?” Porthos suggested.

“My bedroom,” Aramis cheerfully corrected, which left Porthos rather speechless. 

The combined time that they had spent together numbered less than a week, as far as hours went, but Porthos still felt as though Aramis had been a part of his life for far longer than that. The cheek of him still amazed Porthos, but the trouble was that for all that he thought his pomp was a bit much, there was a part of him that actually enjoyed it.

He had always loved confidence in a man. 

Porthos stared around him, trying to recall where Aramis actually lived. He had all the information about him, but he hadn’t reached the point of his interest, yet, when he’d begun to stalk him so intensively that he’d memorized it. “Do you cook?”

“As well as I shoot,” Aramis replied, standing and gesturing for Porthos to follow him. “We’ll leave out the back and then take the Metro to my place after a pitstop at the office. While I do love the shade of indignant red that Treville goes, I’d like him to know that it only took me fifty-six hours to track you down.”

Porthos slid his hat back on his head. “Only because I wanted to be found,” he pointed out. “I could’ve done a runner if I didn’t want a tail.”

“I’d have found you,” Aramis said, sounding so sure of himself that it drove Porthos nuts. “I know it might sound odd to say, but I think I’ll always find you.” 

It was even more strange because Porthos had been feeling like he was searching for something for his whole life, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Sure, he’d always felt like he got close to it (when he formed a brotherhood from his last gig, when he’d learned to shoot and wield a knife), but it never really worked completely.

Here, with Aramis hauling him into the office, it’s the closest he felt to complete in a long time and that was a bit of a scary thing, really.

Once they were out on the streets, Porthos stopped Aramis in the courtyard, one hand positioning him to where he stood in sunlight.

“Hold there,” was all he instructed before he took a photo of him that he might feel inclined to run through a few databases. Maybe when he was done with that, he might have to keep the thing. 

“I hope you got my good side,” Aramis boasted, leading Porthos along with him. “Though, I do have a surfeit of them.” 

Porthos rolled his eyes and tucked the camera away, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked like a tourist might, halting and without a true purpose of where he was going. He let Aramis take the lead, giving him a sliver of the control he always seemed to yearn for. It was mad. They’d barely spent any time together, but Porthos felt like he knew the other man intimately.

“So what does Treville want with me?” Porthos asked, as Aramis led him down the steps of the Metro. 

“I told you,” Aramis said. “He wants to offer you a job. I really don’t spend _that_ much of my time fibbing and if history recalls, you’re the one with the dubious past, not me. I think he wants us to partner up, but he was also rather scant on the details.”

“What’s the pay like?”

“Suitable.”

“And the hours?”

“Horrid.”

“The company?”

“Wonderful,” Aramis assured, beaming as he nudged Porthos onto the subway, taking a seat where Porthos elected to stand with both feet planted in between Aramis’ spread knees. “I’m told your new partner is charming, handsome, and that he’s an excellent shot.”

“Funny, cuz I heard he’s got attitude issues, sleeps with the wrong people, and has confidence bursting out his ears,” Porthos replied, but he was grinning as if bantering with Aramis had lifted up his mood. 

Aramis reclined back in his seat, reaching out to clasp one hand around Porthos’ thigh when he shifted slightly as the train came to the next stop. “I don’t sleep with the wrong people. Flirt, perhaps, but I haven’t slept with anyone in a very long time. Haven’t been able to find anyone who feels right.”

“You didn’t mention I’d be taking on a position as your counselor if I took the job,” Porthos said, trying to bluster over the fact that Aramis still had his palm wrapped around Porthos’ thigh and was holding on tightly, giving Porthos a very unhealthy appreciation for how big Aramis’ hand actually was. “I’m not your sexual priest.”

“No, but you would look incredibly fetching in the collar,” Aramis sighed, shifting until he had his other hand on Porthos’ hip. “I always regretted not having more time with you whenever we bumped into each other. It is an honest shame I haven’t flirted with you as much as I’d prefer.”

“You seem to be catching up on lost time here,” Porthos replied, his voice low to keep the conversation private between them. “Not that I mind,” he quickly added, in case Aramis took it as a sign to stop. “I uh, haven’t exactly had much luck in this avenue myself, lately.”

Aramis smiled at him with fondness and a spark of something delighted in his eye.

It was as if he’d sighted a challenged and now wanted to conquer it. It was like he wanted to conquer _him_.

“We’re here,” Aramis said, using Porthos shoulder to holster himself up, gesturing for him to head out into the station. Aramis leaned in until the whiskers of his beard tickled Porthos’ neck. “Go talk to Treville and when you’re through, I’ll take you to dinner,” he said, breathing in sharply and grinning at Porthos. “I’ve been chasing after the idea of you for so long and I don’t even know why.”

Porthos felt a bit unsteady, but he followed Aramis up the stairs, hoping that every step would bring him away from Charon. It felt like he was coming home after a long time away and for all that Porthos knew he was starting over from scratch, it didn’t feel like that.

Of course, he reflected, the view of Aramis’ arse from Porthos’ stance was a promising start to this new life.


	3. Athos

Athos knew that Aramis could hold his drink, but it was a frightening thing when he could keep up with Athos, who’d spent years after his terrible break-up drinking his way through every pub and bar he could find as if he’d find the answer in the bottom of a pint or ten. Then, things had started to come back to him in fragments while he was piss-drunk.

They were remnants of another life, filled with familiar faces.

And then, one morning, he’d woken up with the name Olivier d’Athos de la Fère on his lips and a whole gasping history in his lungs and his mind. He lived in the present, but he had lived a whole life in the past.

In retrospect, he should have known the timing to be suspect. After all, D’Artagnan had waltzed into his life and suddenly Athos was beginning to remember as if the pieces of the puzzle had been connected and the deluge began. True, not all the memories were happy ones, but there had also been the remnants of slivers of ideas that he had once had, thoughts and feelings and desires that in a time like that, could not be pursued.

However, in the grand year of 2014, there were not quite so many barriers.

“You look like you’ve had your head done in,” D’Artagnan said sympathetically, sliding two aspirins across the desk with a glass of water. “Did Aramis manage to do this to you? And I wasn’t there? More’s the pity.” 

“He’s single, isn’t sleeping with women, and has elected to work out his frustration with alcohol.”

D’Artagnan clucked his tongue. “Does that sound familiar?”

“Shut up,” Athos replied calmly. “It should resolve itself soon.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Treville sent him after Porthos. I think he’s fed up of waiting for Aramis to remember on his own.”

D’Artagnan laughed, which Athos rewarded with a firm glare. “Sorry, it’s only that a few months ago, it was you that Treville was fed up with. I still can’t believe you went so long with Milady de Winter without remembering,” he marveled, shaking his head. Athos felt as if he could use more than water for this conversation, but he settled for it.

He knew that they often didn’t speak of their former lives or of the disappointments that followed them into this one. Athos knew very well that D’Artagnan had spent many years waiting and watching for Constance. Athos couldn’t blame him. He had met the woman his heart belonged to and even in this life, it hadn’t worked.

Athos should have felt guiltier for plying on D’Artagnan’s affections when he still hoped for a woman out there in the world, but Athos could be very selfish when it came to his own life. Besides, if Constance ever did turn up, Athos was sure they could reach an arrangement.

“Do you ever wonder why we remember when we do?” he asked, giving a pleased groan when D’Artagnan’s fingers sank down into Athos’ tense shoulders to massage away the aches and tension that lay there. “Don’t stop.”

“I never do,” D’Artagnan replied, fond as ever. “Perhaps you didn’t remember to protect yourself.”

“And Aramis? He and Porthos were inseparable in that last life. What benefit could there be, them not recalling each other?”

“Maybe something has to break, first. Marsac came and went in Aramis’ life without so much as a shot fired, but there’s one other stumbling block. Then, and now,” D’Artagnan said knowingly.

“Charon,” they said together.

“He’s not going to let Porthos go easily. He didn’t last time, either,” Athos reminded D’Artagnan, shifting his shoulders a little when D’Artagnan stopped massaging. “I don’t suppose we could get involved and speed up this process, given that they seem to be the last holdouts, of those we’ve met in this life.”

“Treville says it’s for Aramis to do and Aramis’ to do alone unless he calls for assistance.”

“And what, exactly, am I awaiting assistance for?” Aramis’ voice sounded through the office. Athos barely glanced up, but what he saw caused him to do a double-take. Trailing behind Aramis at a sedate pace, but not letting him quite out of his sight was Porthos. Athos had seen surveillance photos of the man, but they’d never bumped into one another.

Athos felt a bit breathless, given that he was meeting one of his best friends again for the first time.

Of course, given the way Porthos’ gaze didn’t even hesitate as he took in the room meant that he had no idea in hell who Athos was. He shifted to the back of his chair, barely having realized he had drifted forward as if to greet him after such a long absence. D’Artagnan clapped his hand on Athos shoulder to keep him from going too far. “Not yet,” D’Artagnan reminded him quietly. They both knew that the unspoken assurance was that he would remember soon enough. It was the camaraderie and brotherhood that Athos missed the most and while Aramis was a fine friend, but he was incomplete and missed whole parts of the knowledge of why they were so close.

“You’re supposed to be protecting Porthos,” D’Artagnan said, when Athos found his voice was robbed from him.

“I’m the prettiest damn damsel I know,” Porthos grunted. “I deserve the best protection.” He spent some time letting his gaze drift over D’Artagnan and Athos. 

For a brief moment, Athos pretended there was recognition there. He knew it was not the case, given that he still kept quite a bit of distance between himself and Aramis and such a thing would never happen if they both remembered. This could drive a man to drink, it truly could. 

Aramis smiled with easy delight. “Lucky that I am everyone’s perfect idea of a prince.”

“Not mine,” said Porthos, though his gaze was fixed on Aramis’ arse, which generally meant that some things might look different, but were precisely the same. “You’re not pretty enough.”

“Liar,” Aramis hummed, hand over his heart. “I’m the prettiest man you know.”

“Ah, but I don’t know near enough men,” Porthos said, gaze slipping over to Athos. “I’d say he’s a bit prettier than you.”

“He’s also a bit more taken,” D’Artagnan said protectively, shifting his hand from where it was on his shoulder to slide lower over Athos’ chest, as possessive as Athos had ever seen him. Porthos laughed in that great, booming, delighted laugh he had. 

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Athos removed D’Artagnan’s hand, though it was a lazy thing. “You don’t need to mark me in public,” he chastised quietly, though he was smiling privately. The heartbreak of years past seemed to be slowly being erased in the face of D’Artagnan’s joy, youth, and adoration. “Though I do find it helpful to remind Aramis that his affections aren’t wanted.”

“His affections?” Porthos replied. “And here I thought I was your pretty princess.”

“He means nothing to me,” Aramis replied joyfully. “Stray compliments that he delusionally accepted as though they belonged to him.”

Treville poked his head out of his office. “Aramis, in here. I’m glad to see you, Porthos. Give us five minutes and then join us, would you?” Aramis tipped a salute before going into Treville’s office, leaving Porthos to linger by D’Artagnan and Athos. 

Silence was heavy when introductions needed to be made and Athos felt as if he’d known Porthos for decades. And yet, Porthos couldn’t know the same feeling, for his memories seemed to be somewhat absent.

“Porthos du Vallon,” he introduced himself, reaching a hand out to Athos. “And you are?”

“Athos,” he said, gesturing to himself. “And this is D’Artagnan,” he introduced for him, watching Porthos carefully for any hint of recognition. Porthos seemed happy to meet them, but they were strangers to him. “Is there a reason Aramis dragged you in here as though he’s found you in the rain?”

Porthos shrugged. “Maybe I looked pretty damn attractive out there in the streets.”

Athos smiled fondly at his friend. “Ah, but you see, you’ve forgotten one vital piece of information. You’re the prettiest.”

Porthos raised his brow and Athos realized how that might have sounded coming from a relative stranger. If they were old friends, the gentle tease would have been accepted and thought normal, but as it stood, it almost seemed an awkward come-on from someone with a boyfriend. Athos’ smile turned apologetic as he bowed his head down, glancing to D’Artagnan for aid. “Athos can’t help but observe the beauty in the world,” D’Artagnan said, which was a perfectly good save, though Athos winced at how very like Aramis it sounded. “Tell us, where do you work now?”

“I’ve been with a small independent outfit,” Porthos said. “Security,” he says. “Usually the highest bidder gets our work.”

The unspoken words were that Porthos was here because he no longer wanted to work security any longer. Treville’s outfit was far better respected in society and paid far better. It also had Aramis, not that Athos thought Porthos was basing _all_ his decision on where Aramis was. Perhaps eighty-five percent of his decision.

“I’ve been looking to trade up. Suppose someone heard about it,” Porthos said with a shrug. “Sorry, this’ll sound strange, but have we met before, the three of us?” he asked, gesturing in a circular motion between all of them. 

Athos arranged his features into the picture of innocence. “No, I don’t believe we have,” he replied, watching Porthos try to work out why there was a sliver of recognition. 

“Porthos,” Treville’s voice summoned from behind a closed door. “We’re ready for you.”

“My turn,” Porthos said with a waggle of his eyebrows. He clapped Athos’ shoulder as he passed and for a moment, his hand seemed to linger as though he knew Athos as a friend. When Porthos was in Treville’s office with Aramis and Treville, Athos felt as though he had just come out of the past. 

Athos peered backwards, catching D’Artagnan’s gaze. “I might need more aspirin,” he admitted. 

“He’s so similar,” D’Artagnan marveled, his gaze on the closed office door. “It’s as if the years in between never happened.”

“We all are, I suppose. It’s as if we’ve been given a script to the steps of our lives and we’re meant to follow it,” Athos mused, shifting his hand behind him to rub his palm over D’Artagnan’s hip slowly, where none would see the gentle press of his hand to D’Artagnan’s jean-clad thigh. “Though, perhaps with some twists and turns that the past hadn’t allowed us.” He took pleasure in the warmth of D’Artagnan’s body beneath his hand. “Don’t we have a full lunch hour to do something with?”

“I believe we do,” D’Artagnan agreed with a pleasant smile upon his lips. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until Porthos and Aramis come out?”

“Do you really think their memories will be triggered by an official meeting with Treville?”

Athos was expecting fireworks, quite honestly. He assumed that one, or both of them, would turn to violence or passion and then their old lives would come flooding back. Given the way the two of them operated, Athos had never even considered the idea that they would remember separately. They had always seemed bound in their own way, as though they had some sort of secret language shared between the both of them.

D’Artagnan wrinkled his nose. “All right, but we’re going to my place.”

“Your place? Mine is closer,” Athos protested.

“And you had Aramis sleeping there recently, so it most likely reeks of desperation and cheap wine,” D’Artagnan said with distaste. “Fifty-nine minutes left of lunch, Athos,” he warned. “And knowing precisely who is likely to be coming for Porthos, I think you and I can both agree that we need to take our opportunity to find time to ourselves where we can.”

Athos reached for his coat and hat, shifting away his pistol, aware that D’Artagnan was quite right.

“Your place,” Athos agreed. “Fifty eight minutes.”


	4. Chapter 4

Treville took his time wandering around his office setting up the mood of the meeting. Aramis and Porthos stood two feet apart in front of the desk, both standing with the attention they had displayed during their early days during Army service – though it had lasted longer for Aramis than it had for Porthos.

Sometimes, Treville wondered how he had been saddled with such headaches twiceover, but then he recalled the pride and fondness he held in his musketeers and knew that any of the trouble was well-worth the good parts.

And yet, two of the biggest headaches yet stood standing there across from his desk.

This was part of why he took his time. He fetched glasses of water for each of them, taking care to assure that each page of the contract he had drawn up for Porthos was complete. Aramis had sworn that he was capable of handling whatever trouble came hinting at Porthos’ heels, which meant that they were one step closer to a complete regiment.

He ought to be happier.

Then again, he really did think Aramis and Porthos would have remembered by now.

“Once you sign these papers and join us, you must know there’s no going back to before,” Treville finally broke the silence, passing the papers over the table to Porthos, gesturing for the both of them to sit. “I can’t imagine your old community will take kindly to your new allies, both the criminal and the private sides.”

“We were going through a rough patch anyhow,” Porthos insisted, reaching over for the pen that Aramis was holding out. “Besides, they never let me hog the covers and I can’t work with someone so selfish.”

“Lucky, then, that I am a generous coworker,” Aramis boasted.

“Are you, then?” Porthos replied, smirking up at him as he put pen down to the paper, not even glancing at the contract.

He seemed ready to sign the thing without even reading a word. 

Idiots, really, the lot of them. 

Aramis seemed unable to stop looking at Porthos, as if he bore the potential of a great solved mystery that was at his fingertips. Treville didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t going mad and there was something that he ought to be able to sense. And yet, here they stood in a modern era with memories of long ago trapped under a shallow barrier and yet they showed no signs of understanding how close they were to understanding everything they had been missing. There was absolutely nothing to indicate they were even close to remembering.

With a last flourish, Porthos signed the last of his name. “There is something you should know.”

Treville dreaded the continuation, but nodded his head to prod him onwards.

“Charon isn’t going to take very kindly to my leaving.”

“He’s not a very nice man,” Aramis spoke helpfully, leaning forward as if he had to inspect the ink drying on the page as proof that Porthos had truly signed. When he got his proof, he smiled with great delight, settling back on his heels. “I’ve offered to house Porthos safely until the threat has passed.”

Treville regarded the both of them and thought it would probably be the more sensible thing to send Porthos with Athos and let Aramis cool his jets for some time.

Then again, if he wanted his musketeers on their very best behaviour, he ought to try a daring maneuver to get there. Perhaps he ought to be slightly wild and allow a dangerous act for a great result. 

“You won’t be getting any additional expenses for this,” Treville warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of claiming any!” Aramis replied with mock-offense. 

“And until Charon is dealt with by Athos and the others, you are going to have to stay put,” he warned, knowing that Aramis could often get twitchy and feel as though he had to break out and act on his own. Aramis looked at him as though this was a point to be challenged, but Treville held his ground firmly. “If you want Porthos to stay safe,” he said, bartering on the fact that Aramis felt some instinctive knee-jerk reaction to wanting to do precisely that. “If you want that, you’ll do it.”

“Speaking on behalf of my life, I’d appreciate that,” Porthos said, pleasantly as he stuck his fingers in his belt-loops. “Aramis?”

“Fine,” Aramis grumbled. “Three days paid leave?”

“Two,” Treville negotiated. “Athos won’t need three. Go home,” he said. “We’ll call you when things are dealt with and Porthos is ready to begin attending his training.” He dismissed Porthos with little more of a flick of his fingers, sending them out into the wilds. God help Paris.

Aramis let Porthos lead the way and Treville cleared his throat. 

“Stay,” Treville said, only when Porthos was gone. “Close the door.”

Aramis did as he was instructed, turning to regard Treville warily. “I was only joking about the days off and the expenses, you know.”

Treville wasn’t in a mood to deal with the joking. He’d lived through this before and knew what Charon had tried to do to Porthos. That was before sniper sights, guns, and the ability to kill a man without having to be remotely close to him. Aramis was entranced by Porthos, but he needed to remember if he was going to understand the connection between them and why it was so important to deliver Porthos to serve with their collection of misfits.

“Charon is going to come for him,” Treville warned. “This is no joke, Aramis.”

“And I’m not laughing about it,” Aramis assured, his words uncannily calm. “I’ll have my rifle within my sight at all times and if Charon dares to get _close_ to Porthos, he’s going to have a rather large and sudden gun wound to contend with.”

It was strange how Athos could recall so easily and D’Artagnan had gripped his past life as though it were a slow-moving target and yet Aramis could be so blind to it. 

“You amaze me, at times,” Treville said, shaking his head. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Aramis replied. “Can we go? The sooner we get out of the public eye, the safer it’s going to be for all of us.” 

Treville nodded. “Daily check in,” he ordered. “Or I’ll send the whole of the office in after you. Judging by how that ended last time, I can’t imagine you’re eager for a redo.”

Aramis paled, nodding frantically as he left, shouting for Porthos on his way out. 

Treville counted to ten before he wandered out of his office and summons Athos with no more than a crook of his fingers. Treville set aside the information on Porthos and began to unlock deeper cupboards and cabinets to fetch the information he had been assembling since he’d first awoken with his memories.

“Close the door,” Treville said, glad that Athos seemed somewhat more willing to listen when he wasn’t nursing the ache of a smashed heart. 

When Athos turned back around, Treville had unearthed _everything_.

Every single face from their past had a place in these folders. He had been collecting them because he had been wary of what someone with high ambitions from their old world might do if they realized that they might be able to influence someone from the past, whose memories had yet to be kindled. Truly, it was a relief that Aramis had found Porthos in time.

“Do you want me to set up a perimeter around Aramis’ apartments?”

“No,” Treville said, shaking his head. “I need you and D’Artagnan on the ground. Charon is going to come looking for Porthos and when he does, I don’t think it’s going to go well.” 

“Do you suspect someone else of being involved? Richelieu, perhaps? Some other foe we faced in the past?”

Treville shook his head. “I’m afraid to say that your ex-wife in more lives than one still holds his loyalty most of all. If trouble were coming from him, it would be through her hand and as he has yet to send her for us, I can’t imagine that he’s going to use Charon to do it. I doubt they even know each other.” Treville knew that he was asking for trouble by having the two of them remember, but once they did, he would have his core force back and would be ready for Richelieu if he came after their small little group.

“You do realize if they recall their old lives, we could be in for a great deal of trouble,” Athos warned.

“More than usual?”

“I counted myself a close friend to both men. They were excellent soldiers and better friends, but there was always a channel that I never communicated on with them. They had their own secrets that I think only they knew and had a closeness that I never thought to investigate closely. I don’t know what that’s going to mean now, here,” he said.

“I cope with you and D’Artagnan, don’t I?” 

Athos quirked his brow upwards, as if he was biting back a rude comment in regards to how much dealing Treville did. He shook his head, still ignoring the problems that could arise from Porthos and Aramis recalling and falling back into their old troublemaking patterns. He held a deep hope in his heart that, perhaps, they would behave and that the modernity of the times would appeal to their common sense and they would move on from there.

Treville always had hoped for the stars, didn’t he?

“I’ll make sure that they’re safe,” Athos assured, hand to his heart as he made his promise.

“See that you do.”

* * *

Athos left the office and flagged D’Artagnan to follow after him.

“Well?”

“They still don’t remember, from what I can glean from Treville’s mood,” Athos reported, beginning to load his belt with the weapons he could legally carry and some that had to be hidden, given that they weren’t precisely _allowed_ on the streets of Paris. “He thinks Charon is going to come for Porthos. We’re to run defense.”

“So Aramis doesn’t have to kill him twice?”

Athos glanced up from where he was grabbing his coat. “Yes, that would be a pleasant outcome,” he deadpanned. “The quieter we can be about this, the better. The last thing we need is for Porthos to realize what we’ve done.”

“He will, though. When he remembers.”

“If,” Athos corrected, because with every passing moment (and especially with Aramis in proximity to Porthos), he began to worry that perhaps some people would never be able to reclaim the lost memories that had drifted away. “If he remembers.”

“I forgot how negative you truly can be,” D’Artagnan sighed, beginning to gather up his things. “All right, then. We’re going to be sitting outside of Aramis’ apartment while we _hope_ that he’ll remember his best friend from nearly four centuries ago, who I’m fairly sure he was fucking, if not wanting to fuck, and we’re…going to sit outside their door and listen.”

Athos paused, mainly to irritate D’Artagnan as he well knew it did. “Yes.”

“I don’t suppose we could order a pizza, then?”

Another pause, this one far more contemplative. “Aramis will smell it. He always does. And then we might have to _watch_ them remember.”

D’Artagnan didn’t so much shiver as tilt his head to the side speculatively, as though he were actually considering this. 

“No,” Athos said firmly.

“ _You’re_ the one who brought it up.”

“Jokingly,” Athos insisted. “Come on,” he encouraged, shaking his head. “Before you have any other bright ideas.”

“To be fair, they were your ideas…”

And now Athos remembered why he, on occasion, slept with D’Artagnan as often as he did in order to shut him up.


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped back to give Porthos room to wander inside. He didn’t want to admit to it, but he was almost a bit nervous as to what Porthos might think of the place. He had a lovely little two bedroom flat in the middle of Paris, which no one ought to shrug at, but yet he felt nervous about the fact that Porthos might think it too expensive or too rich for his tastes. 

His nerves were practically rattling, all because he felt some kinship to this gorgeous stranger he had barely met before in his life. 

“I’ve a second bedroom. We’ll move the bed away from the window so you’re not in danger,” Aramis said, fetching Porthos’ bag from his hand (their fingers brushing briefly, causing Aramis’ stomach to flip in a childishly inexplicable way). Aramis cleared his throat and gestured inwards to the room.

Porthos peered inside speculatively, then back to Aramis. “And where are you sleeping?”

“Down the hall,” he said. “No more than twenty paces.”

“Not to put too fine a pressure on you, but twenty paces seems a bit much when my life is on the line. You got a cot? Something I can sleep on?”

“What, for the floor?” Aramis replied, sure that his shock must have appeared on his face. 

Porthos shrugged, like it wasn’t any big deal. “I’ve slept on worse.”

Aramis could have offered the bed, but that did seem like something that you offered a person on at least the second consecutive day that you spent together. He gestured inside the bedroom to his carpeted floor, wondering if Porthos was serious about sleeping there.

What Aramis discovered, an hour later and three pillows joining the blanket, was that Porthos was very firmly serious about the fact that he planned to sleep sprawled out beside Aramis overnight. The trouble with that, of course, was the fact that Aramis was facing him the whole time, constantly aware of how close Porthos was and how a simple reach would brush fingertips against Porthos’ bare shoulder.

(Because, of course, _of course_ , Porthos slept shirtless and in nothing but a pair of boxers)

Aramis had experienced long bouts of insomnia during his life, punctuated by strange dreams. Tonight was a strange mixture of the both, in which he fell into that waking, paralyzed sleep that had him doubting that he had ever fallen asleep at all. He was in his room and he was not. He was removed and somewhere very far away, familiar voices echoing in his peripheral vision.

_Who’d look after you if I did, eh?_ Porthos’ voice rumbled through his subconscious.

When he woke, there was a singular name on Aramis lips and he gasped it out loud. “Porthos,” he murmured, staring to the man on his floor who didn’t stir at any of the noise, a heavier sleeper than Aramis had expected. Why couldn’t he connect the dots? Why couldn’t Aramis understand why Porthos made him feel as if he belonged?

His breath rollicking and rapid, Aramis could hardly begin to calm himself. 

Rattled, he reached into his nightstand for the slim bottle of gin he kept for emergency occasions, unscrewing the cap and not bothering to dull the sharpness of the liquor as he drank it back eagerly, the biting warmth of it in his stomach familiar and making him remember lonely nights in this room.

Of course, those lonely nights weren’t accompanied by Porthos’ steady snores.

Aramis closed his eyes to try and centre himself, but the moment he was able to grow calmer was also the moment the steady voices filtered back in. He could hear Porthos, crying out in pain. He saw the flash of fear in his eyes, escaping death’s door. He heard Athos (steady, calm Athos) betraying Porthos and ignoring his health.

None of this had ever happened. These weren’t even the beginnings of moments that Aramis would remotely fantasize about.

So why were they flashing before his eyes as if death faced him and he was being coaxed to witness his actions?

Aramis had no more time to debate these strange thoughts, because the cracking sound of gunfire sent his system into high alert, sending him tumbling from bed to cover Porthos and make sure that none of the bullets struck him. They were high-velocity rounds, splintering the glass of Aramis’ windowpane.

Porthos startled awake and it was only the adrenaline pushing through Aramis’ system that helped him to restrain Porthos with both hands on his shoulder, their bodies flush together on the ground.

Eventually, the gunfire died down and Aramis could faintly hear Athos’ voice outside, ordering a sweep of the nearby streets. 

“Good morning,” Porthos murmured, his words a low rumbling growl that Aramis could feel vibrating through his bones.

Aramis chuckled breathlessly. “So if Charon can’t have you, no one can?”

“Looks like,” Porthos said and though he was doing his best to appear unharmed and unmoved, there was a glint of fear in his eyes. “I always did have a bad habit of going for jealous men.”

“You ought to change that,” Aramis advised, heart beating double-time. “Have you ever thought about a romantic boyfriend, who cooks and cleans? Perhaps one who might not come after you in a jealous rage if you quit.” Though, if Aramis was trying to sell himself, he wasn’t sure he fit the bill. After all, he wouldn’t be so stupid as to let Porthos out of his sight so easily.

“Yeah, I should keep an eye out, shouldn’t I?”

“It would only be the smart thing. If you’re in dire need, I’ve got several references I can provide you.” He hadn’t missed the fact that he was still straddling Porthos and his hands were steadying himself on Porthos’ bare chest.

“Aramis,” Porthos murmured softly, staring up at him.

Whatever he was going to say was lost when a brash knock came at the door. “Are you all right in there?” Athos’ voice sounded. “Is everyone alive?”

While Aramis knew that Athos was merely trying to help and make sure no one’s life was forfeit, Aramis hated him in that moment because he had been so ready to lean down and make a move. Instead, he was forced to stare ruefully at Porthos, though he had yet to remove his hands from Porthos’ chest, tracing scars and birthmarks.

“We’re alive,” Aramis promised.

“Me too,” Porthos called. 

Aramis reluctantly pried himself off of Porthos, grasping one of his loose sleep shirts as he went to answer the door, drawing it open without sliding the chain off. He truly hoped that his fearsome glare was enough for Athos to understand that he had interrupted something. By the guilty look on his face, he seemed to understand.

“We’ve got men looking for Charon, but the only trace of him was this,” he said, holding up a small purse. “Does this mean anything to you?”

Aramis took it, weighing it in his hands and peering inside. “Are these…?”

“Stolen from the museum,” Athos confirmed. “It looks as if Charon has begun to turn towards illegal business to line his coffers. No wonder Porthos wanted out, there’s hardly any honour in that.” 

Aramis frowned, wondering where Athos felt himself such an expert in the ways of Porthos’ mind, but he said nothing. He pressed the coins back into Athos’ hand, hoping that someone would be able to track down Charon. “He wasn’t shooting to kill Porthos,” Aramis said, after glancing over his shoulder. “He was shooting to kill me. Why?”

Aramis and Athos had known each other for years and years.

It subsequently meant that Aramis knew exactly when Athos was withholding something from him and he was doing it right now, averting his eyes only slightly to the side of Aramis’ gaze, as if he knew something but wasn’t planning on telling him about it. “Athos,” Aramis hissed.

Athos grasped Aramis by the shirt and hauled him into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind him. “I have waited long enough for you to do this by your own timing, but things are becoming both pressing and frustrating,” Athos informed him, shoving Aramis against the wall. “And your life may very well be on the line because you’re too _stubborn_ to remember.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Aramis replied, the spark of anger lit. “What are you talking about?”

“Charon wants you dead because you killed him,” Athos said bluntly.

Well, apparently Aramis had woken up the only sane one this morning. “Yes,” Aramis dryly remarked. “I killed the dead man wandering the streets of Paris, who very strangely tried to kill me this morning with his very alive hands.”

Athos’ eye-roll looked as though it must have strained his eyes.

“Honestly, I thought seeing Porthos would trigger it, but he’s as stubborn as you.” Athos took a deep breath and looked at Aramis, as if considering something that probably wasn’t a very good idea.

It turned out that Aramis was completely right and he could judge Athos with a single look. Unfortunately, it also meant that he didn’t have time to anticipate the right hook Athos threw, right at his jaw that sent him stumbling three paces to recover his balance. He hissed and rubbed at his jaw, gaping at Athos with complete disbelief. 

“What the hell?”

“It’s how I remembered,” Athos said with a shrug. “I thought perhaps you might too. Aramis, this is not the first life you have lived with this mind and this soul and Charon wants you dead because you took two things from him; his life and Porthos,” he said. “And you can’t even remember either.” 

Athos exhaled deeply and Aramis began to feel great fear as to what was going to happen next.

He would never, not in a million years, have expected what did.

“I suppose if violence isn’t the answer, I should appeal to your other vice.”

And that was the moment before Athos _kissed him_ , grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed him in a way that Aramis had given up on expecting years and years ago. Were it not for the fact that his heart had moved on, he would have enjoyed this, but he was miserably stuck on the fact that it wasn’t Porthos kissing him.

It had been so long since Porthos had kissed him, after all.

Fumbling and desperate, Aramis shoved Athos off of him, wiping at his lips and shaking the cobwebs free from his brain, gaping at him. “You couldn’t have tried kissing me _before_ trying to knock my molars out?” he growled, looking to the apartment where Porthos was waiting for him.

Athos searched Aramis’ face. “Do you remember?”

Aramis rubbed at his jaw, the pain intense. “Yes, I remember,” he said, and every time he closed his eyes, he was brought back to those half-started memories that had always seemed like dreams and fantasies. It looked as though Aramis was a lucky bastard who really did have Porthos once before. “Wait,” he said. “I remember, but I don’t _understand_. Why are those memories there? You remember, clearly, so why?”

“Treville thinks that it means the king is reborn and we have to protect him,” Athos said.

“Treville remembers?” Aramis scoffed. “You remember and clearly Charon remembers. Am I seriously the last one to know?”

Athos shook his head. “No. No, you’re not.”

Judging by the rueful smile on his lips, Aramis had a bad feeling he knew exactly what that meant. “Fuck,” Aramis laughed, pacing back and forth as he stared at Athos with the understanding of too many years crashing down on him. “Everything makes sense. You and Milady, _again_. D’Artagnan?” he mused. “Really?”

“He has yet to meet Constance and we have always held mutual admiration,” Athos calmly replied.

“Were you admiring each other like that before?”

“No,” Athos replied evenly. “Just as I would step aside were Constance to enter the picture with her memories intact. We both know he loves her.”

“So, everyone remembers, Charon is trying to kill me,” Aramis began to list the status of facts as far as he knew them, “And of all the friends and foes, Porthos is still clueless,” he said, pressing his lips together as he nodded. “That brutish perfect bastard.” 

“At least now you won’t be so miserably single,” Athos offered.

Aramis laughed, the sound brittle as he glanced to the door of his apartment, where a musketeer stood guard (Aramis believed he recognized him, now, even). “You know, when you knocked at the door, I had been getting somewhere. I was ready to deck you.” And instead, Athos had landed a good, bruising punch and one hell of a surprising kiss and Aramis’ whole world had changed.

“Charon is still coming after you and him,” Athos warned. “You’re still under house arrest. Get Porthos to remember,” he advised. “We could use that violence back on our side.”

“No pressure,” Aramis replied evenly, arching his brow as he sent Athos on his way, wandering back inside to face Porthos with new memories to guide him every step of the way.

He was so incredibly and utterly fucked.


	6. Chapter 6

Aramis hesitated in the front hall before he could wander to where he heard noises in the kitchen. He imagined that Porthos had taken it upon himself to begin cooking up breakfast, even though the sun was barely up past the horizon. It was such a small, domestic act that Aramis had to laugh. Porthos had always enjoyed cooking up small meals on the campfire, eager to prove that he had learned knife skills and how to make a tasty meal.

Apparently, no matter when you were reborn, some things never changed.

He steeled himself and wandered into the kitchen, finding Porthos frying up bacon with eggs, bread in the toaster. “Sit down,” Porthos said, gesturing to a stool. “They did a sweep of the house, didn’t find anything. You’re gonna be out a window for a while, unless you think the bullet look is avant-garde or something.”

“Perhaps I’ll use it as a motif to redecorate,” Aramis joked, but his heart wasn’t in it.

In fact, as he sat down in the stool opposing Porthos, he found he could hardly find words. He was too busy staring at the man in front of him and remembering the last time he had seen him, properly seen him in that last life. It had been a field of battle, of course, and Porthos had been above Aramis’ bleeding body, promising that he’d fix him, that he’d make it better, that he would never be lost.

That was a rather broken promise until Porthos remembered. 

He was more beautiful than Aramis remembered. Then again, he had thought Porthos to be wildly attractive the first they’d met, but he hadn’t really understood the depths of that attraction. Now, remembering the slide of Porthos’ hands over Aramis’ bare torso, tracing scars the way women had in the past, but with far more tenderness than he had ever been shown, he knew that Porthos was the most beautiful thing that he had ever set eyes upon.

Porthos had given him love and violence, adventure and family.

He had smashed two worlds together that Aramis had thought impossible to meet. And now, he was serving up eggs without a single memory of the life before. _Why_ , was what Aramis wanted to know. If the king was back and if he truly needed protecting, then what good was Porthos without his memory?

It confounded Aramis and frustrated him, but Porthos had waited patiently for him a lifetime ago, waiting until he had worked his way through nobility and grace, both. Still, he had Porthos under his roof and the man was barefoot and in a pair of yoga pants that were honestly criminal.

“Athos doesn’t think he was after you,” Aramis murmured as he began to make coffee, already knowing exactly how Porthos took it without having to ask. It was only after he slid the mug across the table that he realized he hadn’t asked aloud as he had known Porthos’ tastes beforehand. Perhaps Porthos wouldn’t notice? Aramis watched carefully as Porthos sipped it, shrugged, and continued to stab at his breakfast, steadfastly keeping his attention down.

“Yeah?” Porthos scoffed. “Because those bullets came pretty close to me.”

“And closer to me,” Aramis replied, mentally pleading for Porthos to draw memories from the black.

It didn’t work. Porthos glanced up from his eggs, confusion rife on his face. “Why would Charon be aiming for you?”

Aramis sipped at his coffee and stared at the man he loved more than any other in Paris. It was strange how the answer could be on the tip of his tongue, but at the same time he wanted to withhold it because it would make him seem mad. Still, perhaps if he couldn’t pursue the truth, there were other avenues to enjoy with Porthos so close.

The only trouble was that Athos had guards set up at multiple points and while Aramis did enjoy a bit of exhibitionist pleasure, the first time (even in new skin) ought to be _special_. That, and Aramis didn’t truly want anyone to come rushing in because they’d misjudged a sound.

“Who knows why a madman does anything?” Aramis finally replied, as charming as he could be. He flashes Porthos a happy smile, stealing a plate for himself. “Do you cook breakfast every morning? I could keep you, if you do.” As if he wasn’t planning on keeping Porthos as permanently as he possibly could. 

“Every morning,” Porthos agreed with a warm grin, his booming laugh unchanged through centuries. “Sometimes, I even put chocolate chips in the pancakes.”

Aramis clasped his palm over his heart. “My weakness,” he replied, drifting closer to Porthos without truly realizing he was doing it. “I’m half in love with you already,” he confessed, not bothering to lie for a single moment.

Porthos peered down into the pan, not half as charmed by the comments as Aramis would have hoped. “You and me, trapped here while they hunt down my old friend,” was what he had to say. “It’s not right.”

Trust Porthos to have a conscience of steel, even now.

“Porthos, there’s more to this than you understand,” Aramis said, gravely. “And I wish I could tell you all of it.”

“So why don’t you?” 

“Don’t you think I want to?” he hissed. “I want nothing more than to tell you, but this is a lesson better remembered,” he said. Thoughts flew through his mind as to how he could make Porthos remember. He wouldn’t dare strike Porthos and while kissing him was a promising idea, it was also out of the question given their guards.

There was, however, a third option that Aramis hadn’t considered.

Years ago, he’d been in a pawn shop in the Latin Quarter when he had found the trinket, rifling through a box of old treasures in search of a bauble to woo a woman with. In the midst of the gems, he’d found a simple shining silver pendant. He hadn’t understood why he’d felt drawn to it at the time, but he had forgotten the idea of buying a pretty jewel and had purchased a St. Jude’s necklace instead, wound on the end of a cord.

Perhaps violence and affection were only two ways to bring back memories.

And maybe the third was a memento from a life long ago. Now, with his memories, Aramis had no doubts in his mind that the medallion in his bedroom had belonged to Porthos, a lifetime ago, and that was why he’d been so drawn to it.

“Aramis?” Porthos prodded.

“Wait here,” Aramis insisted, sipping his coffee and leaning forward to eat some of his eggs before they went to waste. He spent one last moment watching Porthos and rooted through his bottom drawer until he found what he was looking for.

Raising it up, he lifted it to the light, watching how it glinted beautifully. 

Aramis stared at St. Jude, hoping that he could bring the lost Porthos back to him. He wound the cord around his fingers and wandered back to Porthos, keeping the necklace at the small of his back as he wandered closer, sliding his fingers up Porthos’ spine in a slow spider-walk. Aramis could _see_ the goosebumps rising on Porthos’ arms and the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

There was also the most beautiful flush in Porthos’ cheeks.

“What’re you doing?” Porthos asked, bowing his chin against his chest.

Aramis grinned as he leaned in, brushing his lips against Porthos’ neck as he traced the path in which the necklace would lie. He traced it twice, then a third time before he draped it upon Porthos, as if anointing him to become the man he used to be.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“St. Jude,” Aramis murmured, as he laid the medallion directly over Porthos’ heart before covering it with his palm. “The patron of lost causes and desperate situations.”

“Are we in one of those, then?” Porthos asked, moving his hand atop Aramis’ as he drifted backwards.

Aramis could not help his rueful laugh. “More than you know, dear Porthos. More than you know.”

Porthos craned his neck upwards. “Aramis,” he said with a look on his face that was greatly sympathetic and suddenly, Aramis felt like he was in trouble. He knew that look. That was the look of a man who planned to do something utterly against plan and Aramis usually wound up aching after Porthos did this. “Athos is outside watching?”

“Yes.”

“And d’Artagnan is probably listening?” Porthos said knowingly.

“He does like to listen.”

“Then you should be very quiet,” Porthos advised, swiveling on the bar-stool and reaching out to grip Aramis by the front of his shirt, wrinkling the material of the threadbare t-shirt as he hauled Aramis into his lap, offering him no choice but to brace himself with his hands on Porthos’ shoulders and his knees settling around his waist.

Nose to nose, forehead to forehead, Aramis stared wildly down.

“Did you know?” he accused.

“Not until you put that on me,” Porthos admitted. “You didn’t think about _telling_ me?” he suggested, sliding his palm down Aramis’ back to grope his arse and haul him in closer, bringing them so close that Aramis would be an idiot not to try for a kiss, but Porthos turned his head at the last minute, denying Aramis what he wanted most.

He let out a noise of protest, sounding from the back of his throat.

“No, no, no,” Porthos chided. “You don’t get to haunt my steps for years and years, then get to kiss me because you picked up my necklace,” he said. “I don’t care how stupid you would’ve sounded. You should’ve told me who you were the minute we met.”

“Yes, brilliant plan,” Aramis agreed. “Except for the part where I didn’t actually know who I was until mere hours ago when Athos kiss…”

Porthos’ gaze narrowed.

“Christened me?”

“Try it again,” Porthos encouraged.

“Kismet drove me?”

“One more.”

“Yes, fine, he kissed me, but only after he punched me,” Aramis retorted. “It’s hardly as if I asked for either.”

Porthos slid his hand to Aramis’ crotch, palming his half-erect cock. “You didn’t seem to have minded it _too_ much.”

“I am sitting in your lap currently,” Aramis felt delicately inclined to point out, though he did feel like his point was better made when he rocked his hips forward, evoking the beautiful friction that he hadn’t had in ages. “Those trousers leave very little to the imagination, but very little is still too much.”

“We have to talk, Aramis,” Porthos said heavily.

Aramis wound his fingers through Porthos’ hair and gripped on tightly. “Why do you always have to be so sensible?”

“Because one of us had to be,” he growled in response. “We couldn’t all bed the Queen or married women or let the ghost of our ex-wives wander around and haunt us until we dropped dead.”

“I don’t know that your gambling habits render you the sensible one of the lot of us,” Aramis argued, for the sheer sake of getting to argue again. His smile was so ebullient and bright that it would take an entire array of cloudy days to put it out. He traced Porthos’ features with wonder, knowing that they were reborn for a purpose, but in this exact moment, it honestly felt as though they had been given a second chance. “I’m sorry,” he confessed.

“Why?”

“For past sins, in this life and the last,” Aramis murmured. “Best not to get too specific or we’ll be here for a long while and while Athos has good plans to keep us pent in here while Charon tries to kill me…”

Porthos grinned wickedly, already knowing exactly what Aramis was thinking.

This was the beauty and the advantage of the both of them having their memories back. It no longer felt as though they were playing on an uneven field, with their hands tied behind their back. Now, it was back to the wordless communication they exchanged so easily and also the plans that could be made with little more than a look.

“Let me get dressed,” Porthos said, sliding his palms up and down Aramis’ thighs without giving any actual indication that he was ready to stand up. “You got a way out of here?”

“There’s a connecting door to an empty flat,” he said. “In the bedroom. I’ve had the keys for a while. We’ll pick the lock and sneak out the fire escape. It faces the other side and shouldn’t be under watch. Do you know where Charon will be?” he asked, heart beating madly at the thrill of getting back to their old ways.

Porthos nodded, a rueful smile on his lips. “He’s predictable, I’ll give you that. He’s probably holding court down in one of the abandoned metro lines. Still holds a grudge against you killing him, does he?”

“I was saving you,” Aramis heatedly protested, hoping they weren’t about to get in a fight.

“Hey,” Porthos hummed the word, easing Aramis a bit closer. “Hey, I know,” he soothingly murmured, cupping Aramis’ cheek as he leaned forward and closed the distance between them to give Aramis what he had been yearning for.

Centuries had passed between the last time they had kissed like this, but Aramis felt himself tumbling back as though no time had passed at all. Porthos still had the ability to make Aramis feel as though his soul had been separated from his body. His lips were chapped, but Aramis soon looked past that as Porthos let his lips part and Aramis began to reclaim lost territory, kissing Porthos like a parched man would reach for water.

Forcing himself back, Aramis clung unsteadily to Porthos’ shoulder. “We should go, before Athos thinks to check in again.”

“Still a mother hen, is he?”

“Broods like one, too,” Aramis confirmed with a joyful laugh, rising to his feet and praying his knees would remain steady. “Come along, Porthos, dear, we’ve got an assassin to catch,” he said delightedly, as if this was any man’s perfect idea of a day.

Lucky, then, that Porthos wore a grin that told Aramis he felt no different.


	7. Chapter 7

“It’s been quiet,” d’Artagnan said, pacing the hallway past Athos, who sat on the floor, working the pad of his thumb steadily with his teeth. “You don’t think Charon employed some of his men, snuck in there and…” He paced down the floor some more. “They’re probably sleeping. They’re fine. Right?”

“Porthos remembers nothing and Aramis is still contending with his new memories,” Athos replied calmly. “Please stop pacing, you’re making me dizzy and sick.”

It did nothing. D’Artagnan continued to pace the hall.

“Why _doesn’t_ Porthos remember?”

“Denial?” Athos suggested. “The good sense to forget an old life filled with regrets?”

“Regrets?”

“Perhaps not regret,” Athos corrected, opening his eyes to watch d’Artagnan pivot in order to start a new circle. “Still, we lived in a time where Porthos could not freely love without being judged, normally. For him and Aramis to hold the feelings for each other that they did was practically an invitation for the hangman.”

“I never knew about the two of them.”

“They were discreet,” Athos admitted. “Unless you were on the road with them and they thought you were passed out with drink. Then, they were utter bastards and Aramis is far too noisy in bed to be forgiven.” He shared a grin with d’Artagnan, extending a hand out to him. “Help me up. You’re right. It’s been too quiet and I don’t trust them, even with Porthos not recalling exactly how troublesome he can be when working with Aramis.”

D’Artagnan hauled Athos to his feet, the both of them stumbling slightly to gain their ground. 

“Is Treville honestly serious about us playing guard dogs when Aramis would be far more useful behind a scope?”

“Charon wants him dead,” Athos reminded him, knocking lightly at the door. “I’d rather not put Aramis out like kibble.” He knocked again, leaning his ear closer to the door. “Aramis, I understand that you’re upset that I kissed you.”

“I’m sorry, you did what?”

“And punched you,” Athos continued, not looking at d’Artagnan with apology or anger. “However, being childish will do nothing to help protect you.” He waited for a moment. “Porthos,” he tried a different tack. “I know you think your loyalty might be to that madman inside, but you should open this door and let us check on you.”

D’Artagnan stared at Athos warily. “And?”

Athos listened to the quiet behind the door. Not a trace of movement, not a hint of breathing, even. He came away from it cursing under his breath in a constant, steady litany of French profanities. 

“What?” d’Artagnan asked as he chased after Athos, who took the stairs down to the ground floor by two. “What is it?”

“They ran,” Athos hissed, “like the idiots they are.” He dug out his cell phone from his back pockets and began to angrily punch in numbers, pacing the hallway as a white hot rage settled in his belly.

It was hardly assuaged when Aramis’ phone went straight to his machine.

“Aramis,” Athos barked. “Whatever you think you’re doing, stop it this instant. This is foolish madness and you’re going to get the both of you killed _again_. Get back to where you have protection and…” He could not find a word that adequately conveyed his rage and so he said nothing, hanging up and then, weighing his options, clenched his phone tightly to avoid throwing it against the wall.

D’Artagnan stared warily at Athos. “Where would they go?”

“Somewhere familiar,” Athos said evenly. “Somewhere they would both know.”

“Where’s that?”

“The old garrison,” Athos said knowingly, clapping d’Artagnan by the shoulder to get him moving. “Come on. Maybe we can get to Porthos before his poor judgment leads him to align his loyalty with Aramis.”

* * *

Aramis cleared the corner, signaling Porthos with a quick wave of his gloved hand, waiting for him to come tumbling around the corner to the new street that bore nothing resembling the old one. It held nothing but the same coordinates and the memories. Aramis peered up to the flowers on the balcony above them, coaxing Porthos to follow him upstairs.

“How’d you get this place?” Porthos asked quietly as they started their ascent up the fire escape.

“I kept an eye on the property market. I don’t think it’s your exact flat, but I tried to get as close as I could,” he said, digging out his keys as he straddled the balcony railing, easing their way in through the outer door, revealing a room full of trinkets that made more sense to Aramis in the light of day than they had his entire life.

He’d been like a magpie, collecting things that appeared shiny to him and he hadn’t even known their true meaning until last night. His meandering through the past was cut short when he dug out his phone, ringing incessantly as Athos’ name displayed. 

“They’ve figured out we’re not there,” Aramis said wryly, shaking his head. 

Porthos took the phone from Aramis without asking, jimmying out the battery and prying the card out. “I feel like we don’t want them chasing us just yet,” he said, tossing the pieces aside like they were trash. “Charon doesn’t know about this place, I don’t think,” he said, turning towards Aramis with a look on his face that suggested there were many conversations they were long overdue in having.

The trouble was that Aramis didn’t want to have any of them. He preferred to talk without words and had been itching for familiar affections since Porthos had remembered. 

“All these years,” Aramis said, fighting past the blind desire to say what he needed to. “And all those times we crossed paths. I never had any inkling of who you really were. Where have you been, Porthos? Has your life been kinder?”

Porthos was in constant motion around Aramis, checking locks on doors and windows as if he couldn’t stand still lest he face the uncomfortable reality of their conversation. Eventually, though, he slowed down and offered Aramis a mild shrug. “History has a funny way of repeating itself, I suppose.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was on the streets for a while,” he said. “Had to pick pockets to get by, until I learned to pull the short con. Eventually, that turned into the long con and I met Charon, except here, he’s a lot more violent than you remember. Now that I can see clearly, I think he’s known everything the whole time.”

Aramis pressed his lips together, not wanting to ask, but knowing it was going to come out and better sooner than later. “…the two of you?”

Porthos ducked his head down, but the imperceptible nod was enough for Aramis to understand that his fears were correct. 

“Well,” Aramis said, trying to make light of the bad news. “I suppose that adds an extra layer as to why he wants to kill me. No one ever wants to be compared for their sexual skills and found lacking compared to the prior lover.” His smile was brief, weak, but it made Porthos laugh and that was enough for him. 

Porthos had seemingly made sure the building was secure and now was rifling through Aramis’ things, sliding his fingers over finery, jewels, and antiques that once belonged to them in another life. He lifted up a broach, Ninon’s wren, and smiled fondly. 

“I always liked this,” he said. “I liked what it symbolized.”

“We’re free now, aren’t we?”

“Or we just can’t see the bars, anymore.” 

Porthos palmed the broach in his hand, staring into the box and pulling out Anne’s crucifix, the gift she had bestowed to Aramis after saving her life. Now, with his memories back, Aramis remembered, too, why it might be a frightening thing if they were summoned to protect a resurrected king. Then, there had been no mention of Anne.

And even if there had been, Aramis bore many wounds from that hidden relationship that he wasn’t eager to revisit, especially not when the modern world outside their door offered him a genuine chance with Porthos without having to fear the noose. 

“You don’t wear it,” Porthos commented.

Aramis dug out the one he did wear, a plain crucifix polished in oak. “It didn’t feel right,” he admitted, digging through the drawers until he found the ancient set of cards, grinning as he pressed them to Porthos’ chest. “Pull away the false wall,” he instructed. “This has been my safe house for years, but it’s also the armory. Anything we’ll need to go after Charon is here. Where do you think he’s going to be?”

Porthos shook his head. “Honestly, he could be anywhere. I know you’re not going to like it, but the best idea is to use me as bait, have him come to us.”

“You’re right, I hate it,” he said. “Maybe I should call Athos. He can track him down…”

“Or shove us back into a safe space until it’s all said and done,” Porthos interrupted. “I can’t let Charon hurt anyone while I hide away. This is my fight. Besides, he wants me with him, at his side. He’s not going to kill me, Aramis.”

“He might.” Aramis couldn’t shake the fear that Charon was going to lose his mind and snap, especially when he realized that Porthos could now recall his old life, as well. “Porthos,” he pleaded. “Please, let me call Athos.”

There was a look of consideration on Porthos’ face that Aramis knew very well. It was the look that came before he did something rash. It was a look that had Aramis reaching for his pistol, raising it to keep Porthos away from him. 

“Don’t,” Aramis warned.

“Don’t what?”

“I know that look. You’re half a second away from rendering me unconscious so you can go after Charon yourself,” Aramis accused, knowing he was right as soon as guilt flickered over Porthos’ face. “You can’t leave me behind in the dust, Porthos. If this is a choice between letting you go out there as bait with me as backup or you doing it on your own, then…” He lowered the pistol, swearing under his breath. “Then I’m with you. I’m always with you.”

Porthos’ fists relax and so did Aramis with them.

He let out a deep breath. “Can we please call Athos and d’Artagnan?” he asked. “Athos will complain about us being suicidal, obviously, but I’d feel much safer if we had a few more guns with us. They’re our brothers,” Aramis swore.

It seemed to do the trick. Porthos nodded. “Get the guns and the knives. I’ll text Athos the address. Best we do this somewhere no one can get in the crossfire. Maybe the Bois de Vincennes,” he said, steeling himself for the upcoming battle. “Listen, Aramis…”

Before he could go on, Aramis exchanged a firm look with Porthos. “If he tries anything, then I’m afraid to say that the past is going to repeat itself,” he warned. “Porthos, you literally just remembered who you are. I’m not going to let Charon take you from us, not when we have a second chance to live our lives where we actually _can_ without the worry of the rope around our necks,” he said, feeling as passionate as he had ever been. “If Charon’s blood must be spilled because he doesn’t know the sense of when to stop, then I won’t apologize for it.”

Porthos didn’t seem to like the sound of that, but there was a begrudging look of acceptance on his face.

“Besides,” said Aramis. “I’m sure Athos will be raring to kill the both of us for running away from his protective detail.”

“Hasn’t cheered up much, has he?”

“Unfortunately, we’re doomed to repeat our mistakes, apparently,” Aramis said with a hapless shrug of his shoulders. “He and Milady, you and Charon…it’s almost as if there are some things we can’t escape.”

“There are some things we can fix, though,” Porthos said, gesturing between the two of them as he began to load up ammunition in pouches and packets, slinging weapons on in concealed places so that they didn’t call too much attention to themselves on their journey. “You and I…we’ve been heading towards this for a long time, even without the memories.”

“Yes,” Aramis agreed, an ache in his heart to think that this confrontation might rob them of their second chance. “Yes, we have.”

“When all this is said and done, you think maybe you and I could grab some dinner? We’ve got a lot to talk about,” he said, which was possibly one of the understatements of the century. He tossed over a few of Aramis’ small daggers, which he caught and began to equip himself with. “There’s a nice little restaurant just outside town, in Maisons-Laffitte. I’d like to take you there.”

“Is that your offer to pay?” Aramis asked, rather thrilled with the little shiver of delight that pulsed through him at the thought.

Porthos shrugged, tugging on a Kevlar vest that was a bit too tight for his form. “Depends on how the gambling turns out.”

“Well,” Aramis said, when they were prepared and ready to go, with only a text to Athos needing to be sent. “I’d say this qualifies as a rather large gamble. Wouldn’t you say?”

“The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward,” Porthos said, nodding towards the door. “Tell Athos where we’re going. I’ll send a message out to the community that I intend to head out there. Hopefully, Charon will follow.”

It was an odd thing, thought Aramis, to be _hoping_ for a violent confrontation. That said, it would also put an end to this mess one way or the other. And who knew? Perhaps there was no limit on how often one could be reincarnated?

Aramis only wished he believed in third chances.


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos had been pacing through the leafy dell for nearly twenty minutes. He and Aramis had sent their respective messages out – to the criminal community and to Athos and the others – and were banking that Charon would come out of the woodwork to…what? Capture Porthos back for his own purposes? Kill him and end the cycle? Charon was unpredictable and it was dangerous to assume his actions could be predicted, but what better choice did they have?

Before Aramis had sent Porthos in, they’d set up ear-pieces so they could still communicate with each other while Aramis found high ground to set up a clear shot. 

“ _It’s been hours, Porthos_ ,” Aramis’ voice sounded in his ear. “ _Maybe he isn’t coming._ ”

Porthos refused to believe that. Charon will be there because Charon didn’t want to lose Porthos. Especially in this new world when their memories had come back to them. Charon might want some sort of revenge, but his grief lay with Aramis and Porthos knew this one thing to his very core:

No one touched Aramis without going through Porthos.

“He’ll be here,” Porthos guaranteed with a sharp nod of his head. He continued to pace through the trees, walking the perimeter to make sure things were safe while always checking that he never hit a blind spot. True, it might have been a good idea to wait for some kind of backup, but this was a personal grudge.

The others would get there soon enough, anyway.

“Out here all alone, Porthos?”

Porthos stilled, his blood running cold. “Charon,” he said, turning just enough so that he could watch Charon push his way past a thicket. Aramis clicked off the safety of his gun just loudly enough for Porthos to hear through the earpiece, which was all the confirmation he needed that he wasn’t in a blind spot.

“Whatever this is, it’s between you and me,” Porthos said. “Stop dragging other people into this, Charon.”

“Do you? Do you remember now?” Charon hissed at him, stepping into his personal space. “Then you remember what your brother in arms did to me.”

“You said you were getting out. One way or the other,” Porthos challenged.

“It’s funny what a few centuries will do to your perspective. Death isn’t as kind when it spits you back out again, doomed to repeat the same mistakes as before. So I took a leap off our path. I’m going to change things, Porthos, and he’s not taking me out, this time.” Porthos kept his face even, not wanting to give away the fact that Charon is more wrong than he knew.

Then again, if Aramis had managed to keep half his skills about him, then this ought to be a shoot-to-harm situation only and no one was going to come out of here in a body bag. 

“Things were different,” Porthos said heavily. “You and I were different.”

“Modern times helped,” Charon conceded, his gaze roaming over Porthos’ body. “You ended that, too. You left _again_ , Porthos. It’s like you were following the same script, even though you didn’t have the first idea about how important all of this was.”

Porthos approached cautiously, not wanting to get too close in case Charon had a knife or a gun or something else that might catch him off guard. “How long have you remembered?”

Charon laughed roughly, shaking his head. “Longer than I’d like. The memories came back to me when I was eight. I suppose begging on the streets in this life was too much like the last. One moment, I was the same as ever. The next…?” His laugh was bitter and it seemed ugly. “Imagine that, Porthos. Eight years old and I remembered the sluice of that knife in my gut. I remembered the look on your face when he saved you.”

Porthos remembered because he remembered what he’d felt.

“Relieved,” Charon spat at him. “You were relieved.”

“You were going to kill me,” Porthos said back, as heatedly as Charon has edged the conversation towards. “Between my life and yours, of course I was going to be relieved when I got to live through the night.” He kept Aramis out of this, knowing that his loyalties stayed with the musketeer who had saved his life and who offered promise in this life, even before the memories had come flooding back. “I’m here, now. What do you want?”

“You get a choice. The same choice as you had before.”

Porthos took in a deep breath, glancing around them for Charon’s men, wary of what might happen if this turned ugly.

“You either stay with me or you leave.”

Porthos knew all too well that leaving alive wasn’t an option. He was being given a familiar choice. Porthos bowed his head down, as if he actually needed a moment to consider. In truth, he was trying to figure out a way out of this.

Softly, Aramis’ spoke in his ear for the first time since he and Charon had begun their conversation. “ _Athos has the North path. D’Artagnan is with two others blocking his car in the lot. I’ve got you in my sights. Be careful, Porthos, but now’s the time to make your choice._ ” There was something like doubt in his words and Porthos vowed to make sure Aramis was well aware that Porthos held no doubt about the choice he planned to take.

When he raised his head, Charon was still waiting considerately. 

“Well?”

“You know I can’t go back to you,” Porthos said. “I left then for good reasons. I left now and it’s no less honorable.”

Charon laughed as he shook his head, smoothly raising a Glock to Porthos as if he had already been expecting this outcome. “You and your honour,” Charon said. “You should have known it would get you killed twiceover.”

Porthos’ breath was steady and not an inch of him was worried.

“Beg,” Charon demanded.

“No,” Porthos said calmly. “Do you know why I’m not going to beg for you, Charon? I’m not begging you because I know you. You brought two men with you, watching the exits, but you wanted to do this yourself. You’re a good man, blinded by the short term. You wanted Aramis dead. You want me back. Did you even bother to think what would happen if I got my memories back?”

Charon’s replying look was chilly and actually frightened Porthos slightly.

“I considered it plenty,” Charon promised. “If I have to end this, I will. I’ll give us the chance to do this right, one more time.”

“Aramis!” Porthos shouted, panic in his voice.

He closed his eyes tightly when the shots rang out, aware that he wouldn’t know who’d been shot until the adrenaline and shock wore off. That, or he opened his eyes. Porthos breathed heavily, opening his eyes to see Charon staring up at him with a tortured look in his eye, blood trickling down over his lower lip. Even though he knew it was dangerous, Porthos bolted forward, taking the gun and throwing it to the side so he could fall to his knees and wrap his arms around Charon.

This wasn’t how he wanted things to end. Not the second time, not last time.

“Why’d you have to be such a stubborn bastard?” Porthos demanded, shaking Charon to get his attention even though the shot had gone straight above his heart and Charon likely only had moments left.

In this life, as well as the last, Aramis was still the steadiest shooter he knew. 

“See you…” Charon mumbled, the words coughed out past the last rattling breaths he had. “…in the next life.”

It was a chilling promise and one that boded poorly for Porthos. He’d only gained his memories back and already he was feeling guilt twiceover for the dead man in his arms. Collapsing onto the ground of the Bois de Vincennes, Porthos felt a good deal of his hope begin to drain away from him, leaving him listless and lethargic. 

It was in this position that Aramis found him, sprinting from where he’d been positioned. Porthos was sure it had only been a few moments, but it felt like weeks had passed.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing out of Aramis’ mouth. “Porthos, I’m sorry I had to.”

“It was me or him,” Porthos said, laughing past that empty feeling in his chest. Now and then, it was the same. Maybe Charon wasn’t so wrong about their lives being doomed to repeat the same track, over and over. Maybe he had a battlefield filled with blood and brutality to look forward to in this life, too.

Aramis crouched beside them, forming the sign of the cross against Charon’s forehead before cupping Porthos’ cheeks with his hands, leaning their foreheads together. 

“We need to tidy this up,” Porthos finally managed, when his body had stopped shaking with the adrenaline of the moment. “Is there someone who can…?”

“Leave it to us. You, go home,” Aramis said, digging out something from his pocket. It was a single key on a black ribbon, which he pressed firmly into Porthos’ palm. “Go to my place, my spare place,” he said. “Eat whatever you like, go through everything if you feel the need, but rest. I’ll come join you when the work here is done.” He slid his hands down Porthos’ forearms to gently disentwine his fingers from Charon’s corpse and as soon as he thought of Charon in that manner, Porthos knew that it wasn’t about repeating the same steps.

It was about being brave enough to do something different. 

Porthos searched upwards to catch Aramis’ gaze, wrapping one blood-stained hand around Aramis’ collar to haul him down, kissing him with the hungry desperation of a man who had just come to an epiphany. 

Aramis hardly seemed to mind, though he did pull away before he could be dragged down to the Earth at Porthos’ side. 

“Should I ask what that was for?”

“I don’t want to hide, this time,” he said. “I don’t want to share,” he added, clearer on that point. “I don’t want to be doomed to the same life.” He steadied himself on shaky knees, brushing his hands over and over again on his thighs. “Think about it,” he said, cutting Aramis off when he opened his mouth. “Don’t rush. I’ll be at your place, waiting.”

**

True to his word, Porthos went straight to Aramis’ spare apartment, using the key to let himself in. With the hope that Porthos would be alone for a while (and confirmed by a quick text to Athos, along with an apology), he began to dig out boxes of Aramis’ things to start looking through their past. 

He touched his palm to his St. Jude’s pendant, staring into their history, now collecting dust and probably worth a fortune. In this treasure trove that Aramis kept, Porthos separated the things he could now recognize as his. 

In thirty minutes, he had managed to dig out his knives, his handkerchief, a few coins he remembered as his, and a small purse that he’d had since he’d stolen it off a businessman when he was a child. It was while studying the fine embroidery of that purse that he heard the door unlocked.

Out of habit, and given the last few days, Porthos felt like he wasn’t mad for going for the knife.

Aramis’ offended look spoke otherwise.

“After all that, and you’re going to kill me?” Aramis asked mildly. He had changed since the last Porthos had seen him, which made him wonder how bloody his clothes had been. With a quick glance at himself, he saw the truth without even having to ask. He’d been so occupied with rifling through his things that he’d forgotten to get decent. “Come on, I’ll run the shower,” Aramis coaxed, helping Porthos to his feet and stripping his shirt off, undoing the button of his trousers as he urged him along.

“It’s hard to wrap my head around.”

“What is?” Aramis asked. 

“Charon? These memories? The fact we’ve lived twice and I’m staring at our things? All of it, I suppose,” Porthos said, overwhelmed. He remained still, only stepping when Aramis rested a palm around his ankle and coaxed him to step out. He did so, but it was lethargic and heavy. Everything was hitting him hard, and he didn’t know how to cope with it.

Well, he could name one or two things, so he ought to correct himself. He didn’t know how to cope with this in a healthy way.

“Is everything settled?” Porthos finally brought himself to ask.

Aramis reached over to lift the leather string necklace off Porthos’ chest, but he rested a hand atop Aramis’ to stop him, wary that some magic would be dispelled and he might lose the memories if it went. Besides that, he didn’t want to see it go, not after having lost it for so long.

“The area is clean and reports have been filed. I had a very productive hour before Athos forcibly kicked me out.” Aramis reached into the shower to turn the water on, building it up to hot before he tugged off Porthos’ underwear, a kind look on his face.

They’d slept together more times than Porthos could count, in that last life, but there wasn’t a trace of desire on Aramis’ face right now. No, the only thing there was sympathy and worry and it made Porthos wonder what things had made Aramis so worried for him in this life. Maybe it was just that they had learned to be more than their base desires. Aramis nudged Porthos into the shower and the instant the warm water hit his skin, Porthos let all his thoughts and worries loose.

For ten blissful minutes, he didn’t care.

Aramis was waiting with a towel when he turned the water off, ushering Porthos into it and wrapping it tightly around his hips, not stepping away. 

“I have his blood on my hands twice,” Aramis said quietly, brushing a kiss over Porthos’ shoulder. “Perhaps he was right. Perhaps we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over.”

“No.” He sounded more forceful than he meant to, but Porthos thought this mattered to talk about. “I was thinking about that and he’s wrong,” he said firmly. “We’re only on that path if we let ourselves be. If we don’t make an effort to change things.” He craned his neck to the side, giving Aramis a knowing look and a firm nod. “Trust me?”

“When don’t I?” Aramis laughed, in disbelief. “So, we’re going to do this differently this time, are we?”

“Yeah,” Porthos said with a nod. “We’re not going to hide. So? You made your decision then? About us?”

“Porthos, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t agree.”

It was enough to set his heart a touch lighter after the rough day they’d had. He was exhausted after days without sleep and a lot of worry. Now, with an old life invading his head and blood on his fingers, still, because no amount of scrubbing had been able to get it off, Porthos was ready to call it a night and move on to new things in the morning.

“No more sleeping around, then.”

“I’m offended you think I can’t,” Aramis retorted.

“For me,” Porthos clarified, smirking as Aramis shoved him towards the unkempt bed – messy for the lack of sleepers it had entertained recently. Porthos grinned when Aramis got that offended look on his face, knowing he had landed the right blow. “I’m very available, you know, very sexy.”

“Remind me in the morning,” Aramis said. “I’m owed an infinite amount of sleep after all this trouble.”

And really, Porthos could accept that yes, Aramis did deserve a bit of a break. Saving Porthos’ life could get fairly exhausting, especially when spanning over centuries. He opened his mouth to give a smart reply, but it was too late. Aramis was already asleep and snoring comfortably, arms wrapped around Porthos’ middle.

It could all wait until morning. They had that kind of time.


	9. Chapter 9

_Three Months Later_

“The coffee is terrible again,” Athos said when he came into the office. “Porthos?”

“Not my fault. Coffee didn’t exist last time around.”

“You cannot continue using that as an excuse,” Athos insisted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You remember this life as well as the last, so you should know how to prevent grinds from getting into the coffee!”

Porthos sat there with a wondrous look upon his face. “Should I?”

Athos lunged forward, but was stopped by d’Artagnan’s hand on his shoulder. “You wanted him to remember,” he reminded Athos. “You wanted Porthos and Aramis back to their old selves,” he added, restraining Athos when Porthos greeted Aramis with an eager wave, holding out purchased cups of coffee (expensed, of course).

“I’ve changed my mind,” Athos said evenly. “I’m going to kill them and see if I can’t reincarnate them again, with manners.”

“If we got to choose like that, I would do it myself so I could get a bigger flat,” Porthos replied, giving Athos a smirk before leaning forward to reveal a wealth of baked good products that came from the local bakery. It was not enough to make up for the unforgivable fact that he had ruined the coffee, but as Athos grabbed a scone, he supposed it would do for a start.

Three months had passed since Charon’s death and things were frighteningly quiet. The cases were small, no old enemies filtered into their midst, and it seemed as though the universe was willing to give them some time to adjust to their new lives. Athos felt as though he was jinxing their luck, but he’d grown rather bored.

Of course, then it was down to Athos when the next crisis hit. 

“Have you finished going through your things yet?” d’Artagnan asked, settling in with a buttered croissant. “Anything of mine turn up in there? Maybe something of my father’s?”

“There’s some old parchment, but it’s poorly preserved. I think if I move it, it’ll crumble to pieces,” Aramis said apologetically. “There’s Milady’s things. I think I even have the murder weapon she tried to pin on you,” he said cheerfully. “You can have that.”

Athos was grateful that d’Artagnan’s sour look was enough for the both of them.

“I think I can live without that,” he said, grimacing as he shook his head in Athos’ direction, a private accusation that wondered how he had ever lived with her for so long. “Are we really going to spend yet another day doing paperwork?”

Athos contained his smile, glad that d’Artagnan had now taken the burden of responsibility on in the event that something happened to cause frantic action within the office. 

It was a good thing he’d said it, too, because the ashen look on Treville’s face when he entered the office and hung his hat was enough for all of them to understand that something was coming to pass. Athos felt inclined to ask, or perhaps he was under that inclination thanks to Aramis’ finger poking him in his back. 

“Captain?”

“Good, you’re all here,” Treville murmured, his voice rough as he scanned the room, as if needing to see with his own two eyes that none of them had run. “Porthos, how are you feeling? Do you need any more time off?”

Porthos eyed Aramis suspiciously, shaking his head. “No sir.”

“And you, Aramis? Any residual issues from the incident with Charon?”

“Not on my end, but I’ll find out the next time he’s reincarnated,” he joked, earning him a jab in the side from d’Artagnan. Suitably chastised, Aramis sighed and grew more serious. “No, sir, none on my end.” Athos was starting to wonder what was going on, if Treville was acting like this. 

It didn’t take him very long to say.

“A woman has been found dead,” Treville said, speaking directly to Athos with great apology in his voice. “Her body was placed in the mansion of a rich businessman, who has been swearing up and down ever since the body was found that he is the king of France and demands a proper audience.”

Athos felt his world begin to shift off-kilter. 

This was what they were waiting for and yet, it caught him unaware. He knew that their lives had been repeated for a reason and now it seemed the reason was coming around. “We are to protect him from the law?”Athos verified.

“No. I do believe he is innocent,” Treville said. “The Louis I know was far too simple to ever successfully plan a murder, unlike others in his court.” What was left unspoken was that others in his circle were not so simple, and those others counted Milady and the Cardinal, whom they knew of one and hoped the other was not upon these shores. “Gentlemen, I believe our task has been given to us.”

“And here I was thinking we’d get a break,” Porthos murmured under his breath when Treville left.

“Three months is hardly nothing,” Aramis replied, soothing Porthos with small circles rubbed against his neck. “Besides, he might even have to _pay_ us this time, being that he’s such a wealthy businessman employing the help of a private firm.”

“You always know what to say to make me feel better,” Porthos said, his grin widening as he hauled Aramis into his lap.

“Gentlemen, it is the workplace,” Athos reminded them lightly. 

“You know it’s no use,” d’Artagnan scolded. “Come on. We might as well get to work on the background. They’re going to be useless for a good while.” 

Athos knew that he was incredibly right. And yet, still, he found himself grateful for the frustrations and the stress, because they were together again and were going to be working towards a common goal. Much could be ignored, knowing such a truth. He stole a brief kiss from d’Artagnan, because he could, and because Porthos and Aramis set a horrible example, and squeezed his shoulder, guiding him onwards.

“To our duty.”

“And our fate,” d’Artagnan agreed, merrily enough.


End file.
